Discussions
by Besina
Summary: Sometimes a good talk with an older brother can do wonders for you, even if you don't know you've had it.


Sherlock had always come to Mycroft for comfort. It was something that had started when he was quite young, as neither of their parents were the particularly nurturing kind, and Sherlock often felt that Mycroft not only understood him, but was rather good at consoling him.

It was something he was sure he had outgrown years ago, but Mycroft knew better.

When he had gotten older (7, which, in his mind, was very nearly grown up), and had ceased going to Mycroft for help during his waking hours, it simply shifted over to his sleeping ones.

When things were troubling Sherlock, he tended to sleepwalk, and talk in his sleep as well. It had started with him merely wandering into his sibling's bedroom at night and talking about things that had disturbed him during the day - other children mostly, sometimes adults, who misunderstood or mistreated him because he didn't understand or care for the rules of social engagement. While he since had learned to let these roll off of him, it bothered him quite a bit as a boy who was still trying to find a place he could fit in.

Mycroft had rather expected this to stop when he went off to uni, as he was no longer a simple walk down the hallway, but as usual, Sherlock surprised him by showing up at his dormitory room, having managed not only to dress, walk out of the house and flag down a taxi, but to break into the school after hours and locate Mycroft's room, all while asleep. The room he had visited before, when Mycroft had first moved in, so that he retained that information wasn't exactly surprising; however, all the rest was quite impressive - and all done simply so he could talk to his older brother. The fact that Sherlock had gone quite so out of his way merely to talk to him made him feel rather warm and fuzzy inside.

It was the first time Sherlock realised he'd actually done such a thing, as when they'd both lived at home, Mycroft had always guided him back to bed after their talks. This time, such a thing was impossible, and he'd simply let Sherlock sleep there, tucked gently into his bed, after Sherlock's worries had been assuaged, Mycroft snoozing in a chair.

Mycroft had had to do some smoothing of worried feathers as Sherlock was horrified that he was actually depending upon his brother - assuring Sherlock that he'd only come to talk, quite rationally, about something which had been puzzling him, and when he was satisfied that he'd worked it out, he'd simply fallen asleep. He'd given the excuse that it had been one of Sherlock's current experiments, which he kept himself apprised of, rather than his frustration, exasperation and hurt feelings when dealing with people, that had been the topic of discussion. It became an unwritten rule between them that whenever these events happened, which they did quite often, they were never spoken of.

When Mycroft finished with University and moved into his own home, again, he expected the visits to stop, but it seemed even Sherlock's sleeping brain kept a map, to _wherever_ his brother was lodged, handy. That Sherlock still found he needed him enough to do so, despite his chilly demeanour when he was awake, rather warmed the cockles of his heart in a way he was determined not to show, lest Sherlock figure it out and push him away even further.

There had been a kick-up on more than one occasion of Sherlock arriving and not paying the cabbie - wandering away without thinking about it. Mycroft had since sent out word to the entire contingent of London cabbies, to simply bill him at a rather generous rate whenever his brother travelled to his house in the middle of the night.

It had been going on four in the morning when Sherlock arrived this time. Always keeping an ear out, Mycroft had woken the minute he'd heard the cab pull up, and opened the door for Sherlock, who bustled inside, then waited, expectantly, by the sofa for his older brother to sit down, before he stretched out along it and pillowed his head on Mycroft's lap. It was how they always conducted these chats, ever since he could remember, and he waited until Sherlock got comfortable before gently carding his fingers through his brother's hair. Silence reigned for minutes on end as Sherlock simply let himself be soothed. Mycroft's knee felt a bit damp, and he realised his brother had been shedding some very reluctant tears - something he never did while awake.

"What's bothering you, Sherlock?" he asked gently.

"Victor."

"Victor Trevor? He's still on your mind? That was years ago, Sherlock."

"I still don't understand."

Victor had been Sherlock's first and only friend, made during his time in University, and the only person Sherlock ever deigned to care about. Ultimately Sherlock's heart had been broken as Victor ended their friendship for repeatedly saying things Sherlock didn't understand were hurtful. The resulting emotional catastrophe had resulted in his turning to drugs to fend off the loneliness he felt and the sorrow of losing the only friend he'd ever had, feeling so much more isolated now than he ever had before, then eventually turning off emotion altogether, simply to get rid of the pain. He had since given up caring about people, at all, as a bad job - not that that had been much of a leap. That is, until John had shown up, and now worries with John were often presented as things he still didn't understand about Victor.

"I still don't understand why he left."

"He told you, Sherlock, very straightforwardly. You never took his feelings into account and that hurt him, badly, and often."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment or two. "What if I mess it up the same way with John?"

He could tell his brother was feeling vulnerable. John had wormed his way into Sherlock's heart without much trying, despite all the barriers Sherlock had erected to keep people out.

"Did you have a dust-up tonight?"

Sherlock nodded, looking forlorn.

He stroked his hair and replied, "You're trying harder with John, and I think he understands you a bit better. You never asked Trevor if something was 'a bit not good', and John can see that you're trying, even when he's exasperated with you."

"I don't want him to leave."

"Of course you don't. And you shouldn't. John is good for you, and he cares about you. It's okay to want to keep that. It's even okay to be worried about it, though you shouldn't work yourself into a tizzy. John is patient, and worrying just a little shows you care enough to try."

There was silence as Sherlock merely lay on his lap, breathing.

"Sherlock, are you still with me?" he asked.

"Yes," came the sleepy reply.

"Did you understand what I just said?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"It makes sense."

Mycroft could tell he'd done well, as Sherlock never grew tired until his mind was satisfied with an answer, and soon Sherlock drifted off, Mycroft still petting his head gently for a few minutes before working his way out from underneath him and finding a duvet to throw over his brother.

Tomorrow, Sherlock would be grumpy he'd ended up at Mycroft's house again and he'd stubbornly refuse breakfast just to be recalcitrant and reclaim whatever of his independence he thought he might have lost by coming here, but for now Sherlock was his brother again, young and worried and turning to Mycroft trustingly for help. It didn't matter what hour, or how many times Sherlock visited, it was always worth it to be there for him. Mycroft pushed Sherlock's curls back and leaned down to give him a peck on the forehead before trotting back up to bed. He'd be tired come morning, but some things, government could wait for.


End file.
